


Till Death Do Us Apart

by mostly_incomplete



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4013686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostly_incomplete/pseuds/mostly_incomplete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes on a journey to look for Castiel, but some things are better left alone.</p><p>*Written before Angel Heart*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though this fic is complete, there are many changes that I would like to make to it in the future. I'll make several editions in the future, but I'm pretty sure that if I don't publish it now, it'll remain a perpetual working process.
> 
> Please, throughout this story, if you have any suggestions--places where words should be changed, descriptions fleshed out more fully, or subplots you would like to see more--leave a comment and let me know. I am in a dire lack of editors and beta readers.

He walked into the library, a cold beer on one hand and a copy of Busty Asian Beauty on the other. In the background, Led Zeppelin was playing, soft against the humming of the air conditioner. Dean didn't know where it was coming from. He didn’t particularly care.

          The Bunker was chilly, as it always was. The spaciousness of the hall let a bit too much air in, and Dean's half sure that the air ventilation was magic. He and Sammy had yet figured out how the Bunker’s power system worked--there was always something weird going on. After all, it was the secret base of elitist sexist wizards from the 1950’s.

          But, so long as no monster was involved, Dean could care less. Maybe when Charlie came to visit next time, she'd come up with some genius theory—that is, if she wouldn't get sucked into some bedside story dimension again.

          Dean chuckled to himself at that thought. He pulled out a chair, and sat down with both his legs on the table. The lamps radiated with soft, yellow beams of light, and Led Zeppelin seemed to have gotten just a bit louder in the background. Dean flipped the magazine open, and took a big gulp from his bottle of beer. The coolness of the liquid flowed from his throat into his body, then swiftly turned to warmth. Dean squinted at how good it felt.

          "This is the life," he said to himself. He could hear Sam slamming their fridge’s doors in the kitchen. Dean looked at the electronic clock on the table, and saw that it was 10:00 A.M. He turned his head around to see his little brother’s tall frame walking into the library, holding a bowl of salad in one hand, and his laptop in the other.

          "Seriously, dude? Beer for breakfast?" Sammy raised an eyebrow. "And I thought you said no porn where we eat."

          "Yeah, well. This ain't porn, little brother," Dean said as he held Busty Asian Beauty and waved it at Sam's face. "This--this is art."

  Sam pulled a chair and sat down. He looked like he had a full night's sleep, which was something of a luxury to the Winchesters. The dark circles under Sam's eyes were a bit less conspicuous, and his bedhair was out of control. Sammy looked great—better than Dean had seen him for months.

          Sam, as usual, rolled his eyes at Dean's comment, and kept working on his computer. They had just finished killing off a Djinn two nights ago, and Sammy was already looking for another case. It wasn't an easy hunt, either: the Djinn had almost killed both of them. If Dean hadn't woken up last minute, remembering that Castiel was a lousy flirt in reality, they would’ve both been dead. He pulled his gun out and killed himself immediately, and woke up to the Djinn bleeding Sammy out. He ganked the bitch with a machete, and checked on his brother. The wound on his arm was open, but nothing some whiskey and dental floss couldn't fix.

          This was just another Tuesday for them, of course. With the life, the job, and the responsibilities, constant violence was mandatory, never optional. Dean remembered that night back at Stanford, so many years ago, when he pulled Sam out of college to look for Dad. Sam was so resistant, so adamant about being normal. Dean briefly wondered if it had been the right choice, before recalling that the choice wasn’t really his—or Sammy’s— to begin with.

          "Hey, Sammy," Dean said to Sam, putting down the magazine. "Wanna get your ass handed to you in Supersmash?”

          Sam frowned at Dean, looking at him as if he had gone completely insane. “What? Are you serious?”

          “Yeah, why not?” Dean said, standing up already. “The damn thing’s just rotting in my room. Might as well.”

          “But—“

          “Com’on, Sammy! It’ll be fun. We ganked the Djinn and saved the damsel, I think we deserve a break.”

          Sam looked hesitant, but finally sighed and agreed. “Fine, Dean. But we get back to research right after.”

          They went into Dean’s room and turned on the console. It was their first time playing a Nintendo—the Winchesters could never stay around for long enough to get one as kids. So, in the beginning, neither of them knew what to do. Dean kept complaining about the controller being different from the arcade machines he used to play when he was a kid, whenever he got some extra coins while hustling pool. Sam simply laughed at him and told him he was getting old.

          After a couple of rounds, Sammy picked up the pace of the game, and began to beat Dean’s ass, as promised. The two of them yelled at the screen as they frantically pressed the buttons, laughing and shouting for a rematch whenever they won or lost a match. Dean would stand up and try to push Sam off the rim of his bed, so as to gain some strategic advantage, and Sam would yell in protest, elbowing him back. Sam would say that he was cheating, but Dean insisted that it was a sophisticated and legitimate tactic.

          Amidst all this, Dean stole glances at Sam’s face, and noticed that his little brother was much less tense than before. The tire and the exhaustion had faded, and there were laugh-wrinkles on the corners of his little brother's eyes.

          Knowing this, he continued playing with Sammy for another hour or so.

Then, he stood up. Sam looked up at him questioningly, and Dean patted his little brother’s shoulder.

          “Alright, Sammy. I’m going to check on Mom for a little bit. You okay if I leave you here?”

          “What? Are you serious? You already had pie for dinner last night, Dean,” Sam scolded, pausing the game and putting the controller aside.

          “I'll be back real quick, little brother."

          "Dean, you have to watch out for your cholesterol, man. You're technically middle-age now--"

          But by the time Samuel Winchester had finished his sentence, Dean had already opened the door and walked out.

          Throughout the Bunker, Led Zeppelin still played, humming in a low, low voice. Sam couldn't hear what the lyrics were, but he knew that Dean could recite the words verbatim if he asked.

 

* * *

 

 

          Mary Winchester looked at her older son. The afternoon had been a lazy one, where she simply could not bring herself to handle the chores.

          She had started having these afternoons since Sammy was born. The doctors came and checked, and said it was post-partum depression--John waved them off and refused to pay. But it really was not as bad as they made it out to be. She just wanted to lay down for a little bit, perhaps on the couch, and be with Dean and Sam.

          It was the life she had dreamt of as a child. It was the sweet American dream, where all she had to worry about was the silly things in life—doing laundry, making dinner, yelling at John until he changed Sammy’s diapers. She no longer had to worry about vampires and werewolves, and the occasional shifters. Mary particularly disliked the shifters—their shedding always made her stomach turn.

          Of course, now that she had the excuse of marriage, all of that was behind her.

          But it didn't stop her from having fits where she felt...alarmed. It was always unexplained, attacking out of nowhere. It happened again just last night, when she was tending to little Sammy's cradle. A sudden flash of panic consumed her momentarily, leaving as quickly and abruptly as it came. She had shaken it off, but the sense of impending peril haunted her even now.

          It was almost as if someone had told her something important, but the memory had been mysteriously demoted to a deja vu.

          She looked at the clock and saw that it was two in the afternoon. Dean should be up from his nap now, so she walked upstairs and saw Dean standing in the middle of his room, wearing his favorite shirt.

          "Hey Dean," she said. "Are you hungry?"

          Dean raised his tiny hands and rubbed his eyes a few times. Mary's oldest mumbled something inaudible, and nodded to his mother.

          "Come now, sweetie. Let's get downstairs," She said, holding Dean's hand in her own. "I'll make you some PB and J."

          They walk downstairs, one step at a time. Dean hadn't quite mastered stairs yet, and had to put both his feet on one level to walk down the next. Mary held his hands through his journey, careful as to not let her son fall.

          "There we go, great job!" She squeezed Dean's hand as he descended from the last stair. He smiled up at Mary.

          The two proceed to the kitchen, where Dean sat on the high chair. Mary took out some bread from the shelves, along with jars of jam and peanut butter from the fridge.

          "You want the crust cut off?" She asks.

          "Yes, I'd love that," Dean said, and Mary couldn't help but ruffle his hair for how adorable it was. She loved how Dean sometimes spoke like an adult--he learned it from John. Dean had always been more like his father, while Sammy, even just less than a year old, clearly had her features. She'd bet that if Sammy grew up to have long hair, he'd look just like her when she was a child.

          Mary cut the crust off Dean's bread, and when the phone rang, she picked it up.

          Dean watched her as she picked up the phone for the thousandth time, and still he felt the same anxiety. He watched her confront Dad, and watched her hang up the phone, using all her strength to hold her tears back.

          He walked up to her and hugged her. Mom's body was warm and tender, and she smelled like fresh flour. He hugged her with all that he could give, and said, "It's okay, Mom. Dad still loves you. I love you, too. I'll never leave you."

          Mom bent her body and sunk into the embrace, gaining from Dean’s tiny body an energy that only ever came from one's own child. Perhaps it was the power of giving, and perhaps it was the possibility of receiving, that made Dean feel as content as he was at that very moment.

          The two of them stood there, in the middle of the kitchen in Lawrence, Kansas. Sunlight poured from the windows, its brightness pulsating with the slow movement of their curtain. Dean could smell pie baking in the oven.

          "Now, how about some pie?" Mary gently pulled away from the hug and asked, a quaint smile apparent on her face.

          "I'd love that, Mom," Dean replied, looking up at his mother. "But I'm having it with someone different, Mom. Is that okay?"

          "I knew my Dean loves his pie," Mary chuckled and ruffled Dean's hair once more. "It won't be ready for just a little bit. Let's eat some PB and J while we wait, okay, sweetheart?"

          Dean smiled at Mary again, and walked slowly to the door. As he opened it, he looked back at Mary. Her figure stood tall against the kitchen table, her smile gentle and unspoken. A pure, bright white engulfed Dean’s body, mature and grown once more.

          He stepped forward.

 

* * *

 

 

          The diner was bustling with energy. All around them were customers, waitresses, and people who could not yet figure out what they wanted. It was daytime, though the sun was less bright than how it was in Mary's kitchen.

          Dean was seated at a tiny table, with a plate of beef burger in front. It smelled nice, and tasted better. As he bit into it, he noticed that the angel was studying a bottle of ketchup.

          Quite frankly, he had stopped questioning what Cas was doing for a very long time. Sure, Metadouche had updated him to pop-savvy Castiel 2.0, but it didn't stop him from asking Dean why his toothpaste was multicolor, or from questioning the pizzaman’s intentions in hitting the babysitter’s rear.

          He took a quick glance at Cas. They hadn't seen each other for quite a bit now--Castiel was on a search for Jimmy's daughter. Dean didn't know why Cas was suddenly interested in his vessel's past, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it, either. It made him feel a tad awkward to be reminded that Cas didn't actually look like Cas. The real Cas would burn his eyes out, apparently.

          That didn't take away from the fact that Castiel's current form was breathtakingly good looking, though. He wasn't particularly handsome, and definitely had some flaws: his jawline was a bit too wide, and his mouth a bit too big. But his eyes were stunningly blue, and something about the way Cas stared at Dean, something about the way he squinted and tilted his head when Dean confused him, and something about that unexplained innocence...

          "Is ketchup a vegetable?" The angel asked.

          "Hell yes," Dean answered. He looked at Castiel, who looked like he was seriously considering Dean's answer. "Alright, so spill. What's with the family reunion?"

          Cas hesitated, and put the ketchup down. He let out a little sigh--Dean couldn't help but notice how incredibly human it was—and Cas answered:

          "I've just been...thinking," he said. "About people."

          Dean listened as he finished the last bite of his burger, swapped plates with Cas, and continued eating the angel's share.

          "I've helped some...and I've hurt some," Castiel continued, unfazed by Dean's action.

          "You're having a midlife crisis," Dean said as he took another bite in Cas's burger.

          Cas contemplated that for a while. A gentle silence flowed between them, as Dean chewed on food and Castiel recalled some memories. Finally, he looked up and said, "I'm extremely old. I think I'm entitled."

          Dean looked at Castiel's face. That was the perk of Castiel's otherworldliness: after all these years, he still hadn't learned enough about human interactions to know how much staring is, well, too much. Dean thought of it as returning the favor for all those times Castiel threw him unnerving stare-downs. 

          The diner seemed to grow quieter as Castiel kept silent. After all these years, even having lost his grace, Castiel somehow managed to still look--no, feel--like an angel. His eyes were a bit too bright, mannerisms a bit too ethereal to appear grounded to the earth, regardless of how utterly bound he was in actuality.

          "Cas, listen to me," Dean said as he interrupted Castiel's rumination. "There’s some stuff you just got to let go. Okay? The people you let down, the ones you can’t save… You got to forget about them.”

          Castiel turned his head and looked at Dean.

“For your own good," Dean added.

          Castiel tilted his head and asked, not without a teasing undertone, "Is that what you do?"

          "It's the opposite of what I do," Dean laughed. "Then again, I'm not exactly what you'd call a role model."

          "That's not true."

          Dean remembers that moment in all its details. He remembers how good the burger tasted, how the cute waitress standing behind Castiel smiled, how the people around them laughed. He remembers the plaid pattern of the tablecloth, their glasses on top, and the ketchup by the side. But it is difficult to understand, even for Dean himself, as to why he had been presented with this particular memory. After all, it was not the first time Dean had enjoyed Castiel's company, nor was it the last. It was not even a very happy memory, either. It was just...quiet. Unspoken. That is, until Castiel brought up the Mark of Cain, and he had to ask of his angel a promise that he knew no other creature than him could make.

          Dean looks up at Castiel, and smiles at his angel. They had gone through many things. Saved the world more than a handful of times. And this is the memory that stuck out? A lunch?

          He isn’t complaining, though. Dean leans in and places a gentle kiss on the lips of the handsome angel, though Castiel remains unaware. It is too early, much too early in their paths for him to notice this kiss. Dean feels the warmth on Castiel's lips, and that was enough.

          "Shit!" Dean curses as a sudden pang of pain shoots up his left hand. He is cursing more from surprise than from being hurt--he does not remember this part at all. Dean looks down, and his jaw drops in utter confusion.

          There it is, quietly sitting on the table. The amulet Sam gave him on his 12th birthday. Dean stares at it, utterly confused, and turns to Castiel.

          "Cas, what is happening? Why is this here?"

          But, of course, that conversation never took place, so Castiel doesn't answer. Dean looks at the amulet, and picks it up carefully by the string. Even with a distance, his fingertips can feel the heat radiating from the tiny wooden statue. It is a fierce heat, intense though discreet.

          Dean holds it with his fingertips for a bit, and, under an unexplained impulse, puts it around his neck. He closes his eyes in anticipation of pain, but instead the heat becomes gentler and calmer. It does not quite go away, and Dean feels as though he is wearing a lazy sun around his neck, warmth radiating through his chest. Dean is happy—joyous, even, to see this thing again.

          But his joy is quickly interrupted by a sudden light, extremely bright and purely white, that shoots through the diner's door. Against it he can see nothing, but somehow, with the amulet against his chest, he feels the need to walk towards it.

          "Bit late for the light at the end of the tunnel," he jokes at Castiel, but the angel isn't responding. Dean stands there, hesitant.

          But, being the Winchester that he is, Dean puts another gentle kiss against Castiel's soft lips, and ultimately turns around, walking towards the bright, bright light through that little, busy diner's door.

          The light engulfs him.


	2. 2

          The Second Containment happened on a Thursday. Castiel looked relieved as he announced that the time was up, and they had to pick up their guns and blades, and run into battle. Outside the Bunker was an ocean of fire, amidst which mindless croats roamed around, killing whatever came into their paths. Inside the Bunker, Team Free Will and their temporary allies sat in suffocating silence, minutes before their end.

          "He told me..." Sam whispered to himself that night, breaking the quiet. Beside him sat The Beast, The Angel, The Witch, and The Fallen King. "He told me. That we would always end up here. He told me…"

          "It is not of import," Castiel interrupted. His low, stern voice startled Sam as it broke him from his thoughts. "We do what we can."

          Those were Castiel’s last words.

          Castiel and Rowena led them towards the front gate of the Bunker, and Castiel opened the heavy doors with a swing of his hand. Behind him, Rowena charged her magic, her eyes glistening in a dangerous red. A wall of heatwave struck them as the gates opened, and Dean pulled the angel back, kissing him on the lips.

          Sam watched them with a sorrowful smile. Burning wind poured howling into the Bunker, and the smell of sulfur drowned them. In a distance, screams and laughter could be heard, pulsating like tidal waves. Neither Dean nor Castiel noticed any of these.

          And that was their last kiss.

 

* * *

 

 

          Dean finds himself standing in the middle of a corridor. Everything is pure white: though there are no visible light source around, the walls are illuminated and bright. He squints from the unexplained light, and, as he regains his vision, realizes that along the ridiculously long corridor are uniform doors. On them are written names and two years below. Dean turns around, and sees on the door:

 

          Dean Winchester

          1979 - 2021

 

          The door is half ajar. Through it, he can see Castiel's face in the busy diner, and the angel was still talking at an empty chair. Dean wonders for a brief moment if Castiel could see him from inside.

          He turns around and looks ahead. He’s sure he is not supposed to have escaped his heaven, and the moment the angels find out, he’s in for big trouble. He tries to think clearly, but the time Dean's spent in his own memories has made him too content, too rusty to switch back to hunting mode. Dean tries to come up with a plan--other than going back, that is. He can sense that something is going on, though his shock and lack of practice prevent him from deducing the truth.

          "Shit," he swears. "Shit, shit, shit." Dean tries to remember all those whom he knows have died, and whose names start with a letter close to D. That leaves Sam out of the question--by the time he gets to the letter S, the angels will have had all the time they need to brainwash him thrice, and make themselves some breakfast while they're at it.

          Should he get Bobby? No, the old man had already gotten into trouble last time Sammy and Cas tried meddling with heaven's business. Dean isn't sure what would happen to Bobby if he got into trouble again. Dean shakes that idea out of his head.

          Just as he begins to consider simply retreating back to his own heaven, he remembers that one person who was smart enough to screw around upstairs and never got caught. He immediately checks his alphabetical location, and runs towards the A's.

          He runs, and he runs, and he runs. There seems to be an infinite number of doors, and the bright, white light is starting to make him dizzy. He is out of breath--apparently, that's a possibility post-mortem--and each step he takes is quickly becoming more painful than the last. But he keeps running, the amulet flapping against his chest rhythmically.

          As he approaches the end of the B corridors, however, he hears footsteps. He swears again in his mind, and immediately stops. From a near distance, he can hear two angels talking, their words flowing quietly through the corridor, barely loud enough to be understood.

          "...and it's a frightful sight, Chang. Not one part...all burning....."

          "...mission...priority was to..."

          "The younger Winchester..." Dean's heart skips a beat as they start talking about Sammy. The angels are approaching now, and he frantically looks for a place to hide, while still trying to listen to the angels.

          "Samuel Winchester...no. The ultimate victory...ours...Alexandra, have faith."

          Their footsteps are becoming ever louder, yet Dean still can't think of anywhere to hide. At the very last moment, just as the angels appear from around the corner, Dean opens a random door behind him, walks in, and closes the door just enough to leave some space. He would be as good as lost if he had to find a way out of another person's heaven.

          He looked around, hand still touching the door. He was now in Central Park--though everything is black-and-white. For a brief moment, he thought that he was trapped in a movie set in the 40's. Everywhere around him were children happily running around, and parents talking to each other on the side. In a distance, there was even a family picnicking under the sun. Dean wondered to which one of these people the heaven belonged.

          He heard a bark by his side, and turned around. An Australian Shepard sat by his side, and tilted its head, staring at Dean quizzically. Dean frowned in confusion. Then, after a spark of realization, he laughed out loud.

          "I guess the rumors are true, then," Dean reached his hand out slowly, and patted the head of the dog. The dog visibly relaxed, and rolled over, wanting him to rub its--her--belly.

          "Good girl," Dean hummed as he complied. "I hope you had fun downstairs. This place gets pretty boring, huh?"

          She looked at Dean silently, smiling in the way only dogs knew how.

          "Man, Sammy would love you. You're beautiful," Dean smiled back, though his grin is a bit dimmer than hers. "Mind if I stay here for a bit? I just need to hide from...I just..."

          But Dean could remember no more--or, rather, she remembered the park too well. The dog, having thus far only met one new person for twenty odd years, was now begging him to play fetch. Dean looked around and saw a tennis ball lying around, picked it, and threw it into the distance.

          With an excited bark, she ran off like a quick wind. Dean could feel the excitement in the air, how nicely the sun warmed his skin, and everywhere around him energy bustled through. It was so different from his! In Dean's heaven, memories were content and happy, but never like this. Never with such pure enjoyment. Never with happy children, never with playful running, and never with, well, getting his belly rubbed.

          Dean closed his eyes and breathed it all in, until she bit on his pants and pulled him, asking him to throw the tennis ball again. He gladly complied.

          After a while, he no longer counted the times they played fetch. He could have been there for an eternity--Hell, maybe he did. All the world became a dog and he, and it was the closest to novelty he had been since a previous eternity came to pass.

          Threw, Received, Rubbed Belly, Threw.

          Threw. Received, Rubbed Belly, Threw.

          Threw. Received, Rubbed Belly, Threw.

          And all of this went on, seemingly forever, until a sudden pang of pain shot through Dean Winchester's chest, and he remembers.

          The dog ran towards him for one last time, her head tilting in bewilderment once more. In her canine mind, the human was friendly and lots of fun. He now looked at her differently, and it did not look like he wanted to play another game of fetch.

          As he stood up and patted the grass off his pants, she barked once more, asking him where he was going. But the human did not understand her, though he touched her head gently, as he did an eternity ago.

          He said something to her, but she could not understand.

 

* * *

 

         

          Dean continues running. The white corridors remain the same, as they have been from arguably the very beginning of Existence. As Dean runs through these ancient paths, many thoughts occur to him. What if he fails? What if he gets caught here? What if an angel pops up at the next corner, and he can't hide in time?

          Inexplicably, these do not happen. After what feels like an hour--though Dean could be ridiculously wrong; time goes differently upstairs--he sees the door.

         

          Ashton Kinsley

          1985 - 2007.

 

          He stands in front of it, hesitant for no good reason. He has run all the way here, and yet he feels suddenly afraid --of what he does not know, but he is scared shitless. 

          Doing his best to suppress that feeling, he raises his hand, and opens the door.

          The familiar bar presents itself in front of Dean, and it is exactly as he remembers. Old, wooden tables and chairs stand scattered around randomly, some looking like they're about to break down any second. Off the distance, an arcade machine that hasn't been functional since the late 80's stood quietly in the corner. The place even smells the same, like cheap whiskey and peanuts.

          And on the pool table, lazily drinking from the side of a beer can, is the smartest guy Dean had ever known.

          "Dean!" Ash notices him and shoots up, his hair looking like a complete disaster. "Close the damn door! Are ya raised in a barn?"

          Dean laughs and closes the door behind him. As the last of the white light drowns out, Dean walks towards Ash and punches him on the shoulder.

          "How you been, man?" He says. "Been a long time."

          "Yeah, how did the god-hunt go?" Ash asks as he gestures for Dean to sit down. He then proceeds to the bar, picks up a can of beer, and throws it at Dean. It was cold against his palm.

          "We couldn't find him," Dean answers, opening the can of beer as he remembers the last time he was in Heaven. "One of his altar boys threw us back down. Bit of a disaster, that one."

          "Guess you didn't spend 'nough time in Bible Camp," Ash said. "I'm gon' get Ellen and Jo here. Got anyone else you wanna see?"

          Dean thinks for a minute, and decides against it. He shakes his head.

          Ash shrugs his shoulders, and draws complex sigils on the back door of the bar. Just a second after he finishes the last line, Ellen and Jo are walking through the door, smiles beaming on their faces.

          "You've got to stop popping into Heaven like it's Cosco, Dean," Ellen scolds, though her smile never fades away. "You're too young for that."

          Dean smiles at her comment--not a real hunter until you've died and come back a couple of times. Ash pulls up some chairs, and all of them sit down to catch up.

          "So, what are you up to?" Jo asks first. She hasn't changed one bit. Nobody has, actually: that's what heaven does, keep you in your prime shape. Nobody ever ages anymore, and everyone looks their best for eternity. Dean hasn't looked into a mirror yet, but he's sure that if he did, he'd seem like he was just twenty-four.

          "I, uh," he says, unsure of how to answer. "I've got to find someone."

          "What, you looking for the big boss again?" Ellen squints, concern clear on her beautiful face. "You're not doing anything stupid again, are you? Freaking Winchesters. Never give it a rest."

          Ash and Jo laugh.

          "No. I'm looking for Cas," Dean says. He can hear some cars driving by outside the bar, engines roaring lowly with the wind. Jo raises her eyebrows and asks, "What, he got lost in his own house?"

          Dean readjusts his posture, and takes a big gulp from his can of beer. "I don't know, I just need to find him."

          "Dean," Ellen asks. "Is everything alright?"

          "No," he says, staring at the floor. "No, it isn't. I'm...I think I’m here for good this time."

          The bar falls silent at that, dust flowing under beams of sunlight, and Ash's tapping on the table the only source of sound around.

          After a while, Ash pats him on his shoulder, and says, "Can't say I'm happy for ya, but it sure ain't the worst place you could've ended up in."

          Dean laughs, though the tension in the room doesn’t quite melt away. Ash tells him that he is going to customize the travelling sigil so Dean can use it without understanding advanced quantum physics. Ash pulls up a giant blackboard from behind the bar, and starts writing cryptic equations.

          While he busies himself with the sigil, Ellen and Jo starts rapid-firing questions at Dean, asking about the Apocalypse that finally happened, about all the people who died or became croats, and about the Second Rising. He answers each of their questions, talking about how the Devil returned for Sammy, how he tempted Sammy to say yes by promising a cure for the Mark of Cain, and how Castiel was almost killed trying to keep Sammy away from Lucifer.

          Then, he talks about the Second Containment. He talks about how Sam had found, deep within the Bunker, a spell that trapped Lucifer within a vessel. He talks about that raging urge to murder, rising from the Blade to his forearm, and reddening his vision. And he talks about how the last thing he remembers was a bright, white light, cleansing and burning like wild fire, and Sammy’s body beneath his. And, in the end, as he woke up in the Bunker, laughin' and talkin', how he had killed the Devil, and admitted defeat.

          When he finishes, none of them speaks again for a very long time, until Ash taps him on the shoulder, and points to the blackboard.

          "Just draw it on any door, and think of your guy. It'll lead ya straight to him," he says, hair still looking ridiculous.

          "Thanks, man," Dean stands up and takes the chalk from Ash's hand. He walks in front of the back door, and starts drawing the sigil.

          Moments later, the design is radiating with blinding white light, and he opens the door.

          "I'm so sorry, Dean," Ellen says behind him.

          But it doesn’t matter, for Dean has already vanished into the light, his figure never to be seen again by any of the three behind.

For a very long while, Ash, Jo, and Ellen will talk of Dean, and whether he had found Castiel or not. They will talk of him with sorrowful pride, and a conflicted gratefulness that only those who knew the Winchesters dearly could understand. Jo will ask Ash, over and over again, to lead her to Dean, to see if he was okay. Each time she asks, however, Ash will simply walk away—sometimes to Einstein, and sometimes to Turing. He knows, unlike all around him, how the universe works. And the universe always works against the Winchesters. All he could do against the working of the world is a promise of faint, faint hope.

 


	3. 3

          He was running.

          Woodlake was winning against them by four points. Coach yelled at them during intermission—but it wasn't their fault, not really. Most of them had joined the team just this year, and the Woodlake kids looked like they were all full-blown adults playing middle school soccer. The sky was becoming dark, and the field lights were being lit one by one. In a distance, he could see indiscriminate parents, waving at their kids while gossiping among each other.

          And he ran. He ran for the soccer ball, ever bouncing among the Woodlakes’ legs, and never touching the St. Vincents’. It had rained that morning. The grass was still damp, slippery against his shoes. Every step he took was a struggle, and the pain in his chest from incessant running was becoming more and more severe. He tried very hard not to trip.

        The Woodlakes were advancing towards St. Vincent's goal, and he tried to stop them. He ran in front of them, blocking them with his body, desperately trying to get the ball back. Every attempt, however, was counteracted by a simple spin, and the ball magically appeared elsewhere. Coach was yelling again, his neck and his face becoming red, like an overcooked lobster, or like something on cartoon. He tried to concentrate on intercepting the ball, but he knew that he would fail, and Coach would skin him alive.

          "Goal!" The Woodlake captain yelled after kicking the soccer ball into St. Vincent's goal, and their poor goalie, who was a freshman and just 5'3, failed to jump higher. That marked the end of the game. St. Vincents had failed making the scores just one bit less embarrassing.

          They left in a single file, trained as they were in manners and discipline. The nuns did not appreciate messiness, just as much as Coach detested defeat. He always carried a bizarre expectation of completely transforming St. Vincent's team into a dream team, just like in the movies, in which he would be a heroic coach who saw the values in the underdog kids. Coach ended up, of course, being the villain of the movie.

          As soon as they got outside of the field, Coach started yelling at them. He yelled and yelled, and foams of his spit flew everywhere. All of the team looked at the concrete pavement, their heads bent low, trying to look as small as possible.

          "Excuse me," he heard a familiar voice say, interrupting Coach's tirade. "Would you hush it for a moment and take a handle on your mid-age crisis?"

          He looked up in surprise, and saw Coach's jaw drop in utter shock. Behind Coach, his mother stood, frowning in her business suit. He looked at his mother in disbelief, then looked around, just to see his teammates staring at her, faces an odd mix of laughter held back and sheer awe.

          "Uh, Mom?" He said, timidly walking towards his mother. His voice seemed to have woken Coach from his state of shock, and Coach growled at Mom, saying "What the hell did you just say, woman?"

          "I said, would you hush it already?" She said, and turned to him instead. "Com'on, kid. Let's go home."

          "Who the hell do you think you---" Coach yelled, but it was too late. They walked away, and a huge grin showed on his face as he held his mother's hand with pride.

          "I'm sorry, I didn't know your Coach was such a--" his mother said, leading them to their car. "Such a not-nice person."

          "It's not your fault," he answered. "Thanks for doing that."

          "I should really report him to your school board. That is no way to treat children," she said as she pulled out her keys and they both sat in the car. It was a bit stuffy inside, and she turned the air conditioner on. "You can quit if you want, kid. Unless you still want to impress Amelia, that is."

          "Mom!" He blushed and protested as she drove them out of the school's parking lot. The sky was completely dark now, and he watched the streetlights flash in and out of sight as he sat by his mother.

“Would you really be okay if I quit?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

          "Jimmy," she said. "I’ll always support your decision, no matter what."

 

* * *

 

 

          Jimmy Novak walked into Grace Church with a beating heart. Both he and Amelia had agreed not to baptize their daughter at the hospital, as was the local fashion. It was too unceremonial, and Amelia was too exhausted to stay awake after labor. When she had had few weeks’ time to recover, they contacted Father Stephenson, and asked him if he would do them the honor of baptizing Claire. Father was a good priest, and, more importantly, a great man. He agreed in a heartbeat, and they set the date within minutes. Cards were sent out, gowns were bought, and even Amelia's own mother showed up. Jimmy had taken his mother's framed picture, and put her on the front row.

          Jimmy Novak walked into Grace Church, his right hand carefully wrapped around his wife's waist, who was carrying Claire with her. Everyone turned around, and Father Stephenson looked at them from the altar, a huge smile beaming from his aged face. He raised his hand and waved at them, as if welcoming them into the House of God. Sunlight poured from the colored glass from behind the altar, and it was beautiful.

          They stood beside a humble wooden table, on which an ornamented glass filled with holy water stood. Father Stephenson held the Bible high, and began reciting in Latin--Father was a more traditional kind of priest. Jimmy didn't understand it, but it reminded him of the church that he and his mother used to go, where the priest, too, used Latin during ceremonies. It always felt much more powerful than in English. He noticed that Amelia was shifting her pose lightly, and took Claire from her. She looked at him gratefully.

          "Claire, ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filli, et Spiritus Sancti..." Father Stephenson took the glass of holy water, dipped his finger in, and sprinkled the water onto Clarie's forehead. Jimmy watched his daughter with immeasurable pride and love, a warmth filling up his entire chest, until he felt like exploding with the joy of parenthood.

          "Cas!" A voice shouted from behind, and Jimmy startled, almost dropping Claire. He turned around in shock, and saw a young, handsome man opening the gates of Grace Church, his figure illuminated by a pure, white light shining from outside.

          "Cas!" The young man shouted again, running towards him. Jimmy looked around, and was surprised to see that nobody was the single bit fazed by the yelling man. He turned his head and asked Father Stephenson what was going on, but the priest continued the baptism with a bright smile.

          "Cas!" The lunatic yelled one final time, shortly after which his body slammed into Jimmy's and hugged him tightly, until Jimmy found himself panting for air.

          "Wait...wait, let me go, I can't breathe," he begged, but the man wouldn't let go. Jimmy had to hit him a couple of times on the back to get his attention, and the stranger promptly took a step back, though still staring at him intensely.

          "Where the hell have you been, man?" The man asked him, sounding more excited than accusatory. "Why didn't you come find me?"

          "I..." Jimmy opened his mouth, but found himself at loss of words. He looked familiar to Jimmy, like a distant memory that he had chosen to forget a long time ago. There was something about him...a dangerous vibe radiating from every inch of this man's being, that frightened him deeply. Jimmy took a step back, and held Claire tighter against his chest.

          "What's wrong, Cas? What's going on?"

          That name that he kept calling him, that name, it sounded familiar also. Was it someone he knew at work? But he didn't remember. Cas...sounded incomplete, like a shortened nickname of a fuller name--an eerie name, unsettling on the tongue, like the weight of a thousand dying suns, bright, dense, and menacing.

          "Damnit, Cas! Answer me!"

          The strange man lost his temper, and yelled at Jimmy again. His voice triggered a part of Jimmy that was not supposed to be turned on in his mind, some switches that had been flipped off since...since the Devil killed him, blowing his body off into a thousand pieces of blood and meat and indiscriminate organs.

          It was then that Jimmy Novak remembers, and realizes that he is in Heaven.

 

* * *

 

 

          "Dean?" He asks, a bitterness rising with the sound of that name, spreading from his throat to tongue.

          Dean doesn't answer. Rather, he pulls Jimmy up close, and kisses him on his lips. The aggression shocks Jimmy and paralyzes him, but he quickly recovers. Jimmy kicks Dean away with all his might, right in the stomach.

          Dean Winchester falls off of the altar, and onto the ground. He looks at Jimmy in painful surprise, and sees the infant Jimmy is carrying for the first time.

           "Shit," he curses, panic clear in his eyes. Jimmy almost feels pity, but he is distracted by his curiosity and alarm.

          "What the hell are you doing here, Dean?" He asks as he puts Claire onto the altar's table. "And what the hell was that about?"

          "You're not--you're--" Dean stutters as he stands up, still staring at Jimmy. "You're Claire's--"

          "My name is Jimmy, if you're having trouble remembering," he says. "I can't say I'd be surprised."

         Dean shakes his head and opens his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but ultimately shuts it. He looks around, seeing the church, and notices the baptism that is taking place. Dean's face turns visibly softer, a bit happier, even. Jimmy doesn't understand this change, and feels a little bit intruded.

          He clears his throat, and says, "Let's go somewhere else to talk. This is weird."

          Jimmy walks towards the confessionals, opens one, and gestures Dean to follow. But Dean does not respond—he is too busy staring at Claire. Noticing the unusual interest, Jimmy immediately runs back, and uses his body as a barrier between the hunter and his daughter.

          “Let’s talk,” he says, voice threateningly low. Dean’s face softens again, and it frustrates Jimmy immensely. “Somewhere else.”

          Dean hesitates for a moment, but nods after some thought. They walk into the small booth, and find themselves amidst a small suburban park. A few kids are running around, yelling and making fun. Along the benches sat some parents, drinking from their water bottles, talking among each other. Jimmy walks towards one of the benches, and so does Dean.

          "What are you doing?" Jimmy asks once both of them have sat down. "Why are you here?"

          "I’m…I’m looking for Castiel," he answers, eyes looking anywhere but Jimmy. "He's, uh, he's gone missing."

          "What, so you just casually popped by Heaven like it's Costco?" He asks, staring at Dean in disbelief.

          "Just moved in, actually," Dean says, still looking extremely uncomfortable. "Full membership now."

          Claire runs towards Jimmy from the playground, looking no older than five, and with a paper pinwheel on her hand. She gets to her father, and climbs onto the bench, hugging Jimmy tight. She whispers something in his ears.

          "I love you too, Claire," Jimmy answers. She giggles on his laps, and starts blowing the pinwheel. As it spins, sunlight is reflected off of the colored paper, and the shimmer shoots into Dean's eyes. The hunter looks at Claire with more love than Jimmy understands.

          "Why are you..." he asks, but doesn't quite know how to phrase the question. ”Did you know Claire?"

          "I, uh," Dean stutters, caught off guard by the question. "Yes, but she...she's not a big fan of me."

          "Why do you--is she safe?" Jimmy's eyes are wide open, and a terrible anxiety eats him from the inside out. He remembers what Dean does, what they do, and what it means if Claire was involved in their business. He made the mistake of letting them in, and what followed was two entire years of torture and a gruesome death by the literal Devil. Did they draw Claire into their madness too?

          Dean looks away, and, after a while, mutters, "She's safe and happy now."

          Jimmy doesn't fully understand, but he takes some comfort from that. On his laps, Claire is singing a silly tune, playing with her little paper pinwheel. He looks at Dean, and notices his unrest.

          "Why are you looking for Castiel?"

          Dean looks straight at Jimmy for the first time, his green eyes containing something Jimmy thinks he'll never quite comprehend. He then realizes that Dean and he are not the same age anymore.

          "A lot of things happened, Jimmy," he says, sounding tired, like an old man. "We never really knew each other, before Cas---before you--you know."

          Jimmy swallows dryly.

          "But I know you're a good man. A much better man than I ever was. You saved the ones you loved. But me? Not so much," Dean says, his gaze now turned away from Jimmy's eyes again, and onto the ground. "Lots of things have changed, Jimmy. Castiel did all he could to stop it, we all did. But it was never enough.

          "You're pissed at Cas. I get that. Hell, you have every right in the world to be pissed at him. But that guy...that little man, he saved the world more times than I can count. He was family, you understand? Family don't end with blood, Jimmy."

          Dean looks at Claire, sorrow clear on his face. The girl is still playing with her pinwheel, making funny noises with her mouth. Occasionally, she would turn around and smile at Jimmy. Dean thinks of his Claire, the grown up woman who picked up her guns and walked right into battle, despite Castiel desperately begging her to stay.

          "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I truly am. Where we are right now, where we all are right now...it ain't the best that could've happened, but that's the way it is. Cas is missing, and I need to find him. I need him."

          Jimmy is at loss of words again. He doesn't understand how all of that was connected with why he was looking for Castiel, or why he was looking at Claire like he loved her.

          "Listen, man. I'm gonna leave in a second and stop bothering you, but before I do that, can I ask you for a favor?"

          "Uh....yeah?"

          "Do you have any other memory of Claire? Can you show them to me?"

          Jimmy's worried again by the state of his daughter. Why does Dean want to see Claire?

          "Dean, you said she's safe, right?"

          "I...yes. She is," Dean answers, though his face is a pool of emotions. “I’m sure she is happier than she ever has been for the past ten years. Please, Jimmy. Can I see her?"

          Jimmy, though still extremely concerned, complies and shows Dean of his best memory of Claire. They got onto what looks like Jimmy’s car, parked but twenty feet away from where they sat. The instant Jimmy slams the door shut, everything melts and reconfigures around them. Dean finds himself sitting in an auditorium, and among many parents. On the stage were many children—and among them, Claire stood out as the prettiest of all.

          Dean and Jimmy were sat in the front row, and Jimmy held a V8 on his hand. He recorded every detail of Claire’s performance on her first talent show—from her nervous walking to her awkward wave at her father in the audience, Jimmy had it all taped down, and would watch it every Christmas since.

Beside Jimmy, Dean looked out of place--it was evident that he did not belong, like a piece of a puzzle shoved into the wrong place by force. But Dean focused on Claire, how happy she was, and even Jimmy could feel pride radiating from the old hunter.

          The show was quick. Claire got up and did ballet—it wasn’t particularly impressive, but Claire had maintained a smile throughout, and both Jimmy and Dean clapped standing up. Claire ran towards them from the stage after the show was over, hugging Jimmy, just like she did a year ago at their local park.

Dean looked at Jimmy as Claire hugged him. Jimmy tried to ignore the meaning behind his look.

          "I'm so sorry," Dean says.

          "I know," Jimmy answers, his face familiar, but his voice entirely different.

          Before he leaves, Dean draws Jimmy a complex pattern, and told him to draw it on any door if he wants to see Claire. Dean warns him that she will be very different.

          Truth is, Jimmy knows. He isn’t stupid, and has already guessed all that had happened--the kiss, the longing, the sorrow only a parent would come to know--but he has yet come to terms with it. He is well aware that these guys always did what they could to help people--he had seen through Castiel's eyes. If Dean and Castiel had raised her as their own, she was probably the most protected girl on Earth.

          But Jimmy still couldn’t bring himself to look at Dean in the eyes again. He is angry, even furious. However much he understands Dean’s situation, Jimmy simply cannot stop himself from imagining what their life would’ve been like if Castiel never came. If Dean never showed up. He can’t stop himself from imagining what Claire would’ve looked like in her graduation gown, in her business suit, and in her wedding dress.

          He can imagine Claire wearing many things, but bloody armor is not one of them.

          Jimmy stares at the sigil Dean has left him with. He wonders many things, and cries several times. He walks to that soccer field, where he lost a soccer match many, many years ago. There, holding his hand, is his mother.

          Jimmy stays there for some time. He breathes in his mother’s scent, that smell of soft, powdery laundry detergent. Jimmy feels the dampness of the grass beneath his feet, the warmth coming from his mother’s palm. And he feels the wind blowing against his face, and hears the coach’s yelling behind, an infinite distance away.

He hugs his mom tightly, and walks towards their car. He draws with his finger the sigil his daughter’s father gave him, and watches it shine on the door of his car. From it pours waves after waves of pure, white light.

As Jimmy stares at the complex sigil, and as he stares at the door to his daughter, a range of emotions drown him--anger, jealousy, guilt, pity, sorrow, anxiety--but in the end, it is love that won out.

          He walks through the door, and found himself at his own house.

          “Dad?”


	4. 4

Dean sits in the middle of the corridor, amidst an infinite amount of doors that stretch as far as he can see. There are no visible light source around, not a lamp to be seen. But somehow, the corridor is illuminated by a soft, white light. It's inexplicably soothing. Dean feels a calmness washing up his body from the bottom up, like tidal waves, or like the lullaby that Mom used to sing. Or, like a good shower with Cas after a particularly exhausting hunt.

          There is no sound. Not even from his body. He can hear no heart beats, no air expanding his lungs. It is odd--he is still consciously breathing, and he was out of breath from running before. But there simply is no air going in or out of his body. There may not even be air in Heaven, for all Dean knows. It doesn't make any sense. Heaven doesn't make any sense.

          Dean stares at the floor blankly, unsure of what to do. There's no computer around, and he's not at the Bunker's library, so research is out of the question. He misses the messiness of his life on Earth. At least back then, there was always something to do, something hidden deep within the Bunker’s chambers that could solve their problems. Now, he's trapped alone in the simplicity of Heaven, trapped in its endless corridors, trapped with no way out.

          Was this how Castiel lived? Dean wondered. Had Castiel walked the very same corridors he just ran in, had he touched people's heavens the same way Dean just did? Dean remembers the first time he saw Castiel. He remembers that night, when the old barn trembled under Cas's presence, his grace illuminating the whole room, casting large, ominous shadows from his wings. Dean can still recall that weird, fleshy feeling when he stabbed into Cas's heart, to which the angel responded by pulling the blade out slowly and silently, never breaking eye contact. He remembered how absolutely terrified he was, fear running cold in his blood.

          Is this how Castiel lived, before they knew each other?

          Even years after they met, Cas never talked of his life back in Heaven. Sure, he would say that he served Heaven, that he was still an Angel of the Lord, and that the only reason he stayed on Earth was because of Dean. But Castiel never talked about how he lived upstairs--how he lived, right here. The only time he heard Castiel mention life in Heaven was the night Cas had finally moved into his room.

          They had just finished a nasty case in New York City--an entire vampire nest hidden deep within Lower East Side. If it weren't for Castiel zapping them out, they would've never made it out before the police arrived. That drained Cas's mojo pretty badly, and the moment they appeared outside of the Bunker, his body collapsed. Dean held him firm in his arms, feeling the full weight of the angel's vessel, warm against his own.

          The three of them made it into the Bunker, and Sam went into his own room as soon as they walked down the stairs.

          Dean looked at Cas, his face scarily pale. He had to pick him up and hold the angel like a knight would hold his princess, using the last bit of strength in him to walk toward his room. Cas wasn't breathing--he only pretended to do so around Dean, after he requested it the first month they met. Not hearing or seeing him breathe always made Dean uneasy. In the beginning, he attributed his uneasiness about Cas's not breathing to his hunter's instincts. After a while, however, he realized that it was really just him never being sure if Castiel was alive or not.

          When Dean finally reached his room, he gently laid Castiel down, moving the pillow around to accommodate the extra person. Then, Dean reached around Cas's body, and tried to pull the trench coat's sleeves up, so Cas could be a bit more comfortable. He could feel Cas's warmth within hair's width, the sole indicator that Cas was alive.

          The angel's eyelids shivered slightly, and Castiel opened his eyes upon Dean's gentle touch.

          "...No."

          The smile on the corner of Dean's mouth was frozen. The angel stared at him, eyes now wide open, revealing nothing but terror. Castiel sat up and, using all fours, tried to get away from Dean. He pressed his back tight against the headboard, hands holding his knees, and tried to make himself as small as possible. Dean had never seen such meekness in Cas.

          "Cas? What's wrong?" He asked, ready to yell for Sam the moment anything goes wrong. "Cas! Talk to me!"

          But Castiel would not answer. He stared at Dean, his pupils unfocused. Dean swore in his mind, and immediately lowered his voice--he had seen this, Hell, he had experienced this before. Sometimes it was Sammy, but most nights it was him. They would shoot up in the middle of the night, yelling and panting, not knowing where they were. The other would sooth his brother, and bring a shot or two of cheap, motel whiskeys, which sometimes was enough to convince them that they were not in Hell.

          Dean didn't know that it happened to angels, too.

          "Cas, talk to me," he said, lowering his posture and softening his voice. "I'm right here."

          Castiel would not answer. His eyes were wide open, but they held nothing except fear. The bed creaked under his shaking body. The sight was so painful to look at that Dean had to force himself to stay calm. Every inch of Dean's body ached to soothe Castiel, to bring him down to Earth again.

          "Cas," He said, still keeping his voice low and gentle. "I'm going to touch you on your right hand, okay?"

          Castiel would not answer. Dean moved slowly towards Castiel, like he would Sam when it was his brother's turn to be like this. It's funny--it was actually Sam who had taught him this trick. Years ago, when Dean was still with his father, John used to have these nights more frequently than Dean had cared to count. It was terrifying, seeing the old man scream in the middle of those nights, hands waving like a drowning man. The first time it happened, Dean had tried to calm his father down, but was punched in the eye soon as he stepped near. After that incident, he simply walked outside of their motel room whenever it happened, and waited for John to compose himself. It was not until Sammy returned from college and did this for Dean that he had learned the trick.

          "Cas, my hand is on yours," he said, voice still soft and low. "I'm here, right here."

          Castiel's body shook the instant Dean's hands landed on his own, as if electrified. He kept staring at Dean, those blue eyes filled with nothing but empty fright. Dean tried very hard not to crack his voice.

          “Cas, I’m right here, can you feel me?”

          Castiel opens his mouth, still not looking at Dean. He could hear air moving out of the angel’s mouth, but Dean could not make out the words. It sounded like Cas was being strangled, and that was his cry for help. Dean moved his body, slowly and quietly, towards Cas. He tilted his head, and heard Cas mutter, over, and over, and over again:

          “…No, Naomi. Please. No, Naomi…”

          That name. Dean remembered that name—how could he not? But his curiosity was irrelevant at that moment, and Dean pulled back, still gentle in his move.

          "Cas, I'm going to move up and touch you on your arm now, okay?" Dean said, and waited a second before moving his hand. The second contact was slightly better--Cas did not shake as much, and his pupils took actual focus on Dean. He took it as a good sign.

          Dean spent the next thirty minutes slowly but firmly setting ground, touching Cas's hands, arms, shoulders, and then finally his cheeks. Castiel's body shivered with every touch, that unexplained fear shooting up every time Dean made contact, but subsiding with Dean's quiet reassurance. He gave more and more time in between the moves, so that Castiel could have time to ease in and absorb the touch. As Dean progressed upwards, the angel's body had relaxed. By the end, Castiel finally closed his eyes.

          "Nice peach-fuzz, buddy," Dean said as he touched the angel's cheeks. "You okay now?"

          Castiel did not answer, but nodded solemnly.

          "Great. Can we go to bed? I'm sore all over."

          Dean drew his hands back, and continued to take Castiel's coat off, along with his ties, shoes, and socks. After throwing them onto the floor--Dean will take care of them tomorrow--he reached over and turned off the lamp.

          He lied down, exhaling deeply. Beside him, sharing a pillow, was Castiel's body. Cas was still not breathing, but Dean could feel the warmth of his body, and that was close enough. Dean turned on his side. They sought each other's touch.

          "Dean," Cas said.

          "Mhm?"

          "I apologize. I thought I was still in Heaven."

          Dean opened his eyes, but couldn't see anything in the darkness.

          "Quiet, Cas," he said, shutting his eyes again. "We're both tired."

          "Okay."

          "Let's go to sleep."

          "Okay."

 

* * *

 

 

          Footsteps are nearing. Dean can hear it clearly--there is no other sound around. Ripples of the tapping spread through the corridor, and Dean can feel it in the vibration of the floor.

          Thoughts rush through his brain. Should he start running? Hide in another random Heaven? Go deep underground with Ash's sigil until he's safe? Or, should he fight against the angels for one last time, armed with nothing but his fists? Thousands of plans come to Dean's mind, yet none of them is practical at all. Eventually, all fade away, leaving but one glaring thought, shouting and screaming at Dean in silent persistence.

 

          Pray.

          Pray to Cas.

 

          Dean shuts his eyes, not moving one inch from where he is. Footsteps are nearing, but he does not move. The ripples grow louder and louder, until it becomes almost deafening, resonating with every inch of Dean's body. Yet, he does not move. They're right around the corner now, the footsteps nearing, and nearing, and nearing, and then---

          "Dean?"

          And Dean opens his eyes, his jaw tightly clenched. In front of him stands an angel, her face familiar, though Dean cannot quite recall.

          "Dean, what are you doing here?" She asks, her voice soft but clear. "You are not supposed to come out."

          "Who are you?" Dean says, unmoving. It surprises him that he should be able to sit so still. He feels not one trace of the old hunter's impulse to attack and defend. Nada. It is as if he's talking to a neighbor and not his prison guard.

          "We've met before," she answers. Dean raises his head and takes a better look. The angel has flaming red hair, curly towards the end and resting elegantly on her shoulder blades. Her features are well defined and strong, though her expression gentle and wistful. She possesses the look that Dean had seen on Earth so many times. It is the look of a soldier who had survived against her will.

          "Hannah?"

          She nods, extending an arm to him. Dean squints at her, and stands up by himself. The angel is undeterred.

          "Dean, why are you here?" Hannah asks, tilting her head quizzically. Her eyes are supernaturally bright, shimmering with a blue several shades darker than that of Cas's. Dean avoids her stare.

          "I'm looking for someone," he answers.

          Hannah nods, and begins walking forward. Dean hesitates for a while, but ultimately decides to follow.

          "I can help," she says without looking back.

          As they walk through the corridors in silence, Dean notices that the doors are different in the angel's presence. They glow in a weird, blue light as Hannah approaches, and return to their ordinary pearl white once she walks farther away. It is eerily beautiful.

          Dean is unsure of how long they've walked before reaching a grand, wooden door towards the end of the last corridor. Time works differently in Heaven. It feels as though every moment of his self-awareness is stretched to an infinity, as the trail of his past drags lazily behind. When Hannah finally stops her steps, Dean has almost forgotten that he was walking along.

          "Follow me," Hannah says. With a swing of her hand, the heavy doors of Heaven's headquarter opens. In it are a handful of angels, each busying themselves with paperwork. Sunlight pours down from the windows on each side of the celestial office, as unexplained as the infinite corridors outside.

          The moment Dean steps into the room, however, all angels stop working and look up at him. A sense of danger shoots up Dean's spine, and he instinctively jumps back.

          "Don't worry, Dean," Hanna says, turning around and looking at him. "We do not harm."

          Dean scoffs, but relaxes a bit. He can tell that the angels' expressions are not malicious. Instead, for whatever reason, they look sad--bereaved, even. Dean does not know why.

          Hannah gestures towards him, and the two walk further down the office into another room. It is minimalistic--a table, a chair, and some cabinets are the only furniture. Hannah throws him a faint smile, and says, "We had to redecorate after Metatron. This is simpler for me."

          She sits down on the only chair, and produces another with a snap of her fingers. Dean sits down across the table, more tired than he thinks he is.

          The two of them sit in an uncomfortable silence. Unlike the outer room, Hannah's office has no windows around. It is illuminated by some artificial light above, and the room is covered with a shade of metal grey. It feels more like a military office than a heavenly hall.

          "May I...may I get you anything?" She asks, breaking the silence. "Coffee? Water? Milk?"

          "Excuse me?"

          "I, uh," Hannah answers, "I learned a lot from my stay on Earth. Though I do not experience the same senses as humans do, I understand the pleasure found in simple provisions."

          "No, not that," Dean says, a sudden rage rising in him. "Why am I here?"

          As he growls these words, Dean can hear the angels whisper nervously among themselves behind closed doors. In front of him, Hannah looks straight into his eyes. The blue in her eyes seem impossibly bright, and Dean has nothing else to say.

          The two fall silent again. Tension builds in Hannah's office, as Dean grabs tightly onto the handle of the chair. Another eternity passes before Hannah opens her mouth:

          "You ended the Second Apocalypse, Dean. Is that not enough?"

          "No, it's not," Dean shoots up from his chair and bellows. "It’s not fucking enough. Why am I here, Hannah? Why am I really here?"

          Hannah looks down at the floor. Dean stands there, panting for the non-existent air. This is all too familiar, the scenario having played out thousands of times before--except this time, it is another angel whom Dean is yelling at, and they are no longer in the Bunker. Hannah's face is now filled with sorrow.

          "During the Second Containment," she says quietly, barely audible amidst Dean's own ire. "During that war, Dean, many of us died. I had to sit in this very office and send my sisters and brothers to perish in horror and in gore. The halls of Heaven used to be blue, Dean. We do not reproduce. Heaven cannot be healed. But hard decisions have to be made, and it is all for the greater good."

          Hannah points at the door behind Dean, her finger pale and slightly shaking.

          "The last time I had to make such decisions, I stood right there, in that office. I stood in Castiel’s place while he took a trip to Hell. I had to order my family off to war, Dean, knowing that very few of them would make it back alive. I had to do that for months, until that night, when we all heard it.

          "We all heard Castiel's voice," she says, not minding Dean’s threatening glare. "'Dean Winchester is saved,' he said, over and over again. In that room he returned triumphant, though his wings were broken and never healed since. For he had done God's will, Dean. He had saved the Righteous Man."

          "Don’t call me that," Dean snaps. "It don’t mean nothing, and you know it. My soul ain't worth a dime if Michael couldn't wear me to prom."

          "He was our strongest soldier. A celebrity among garrisons," Hannah continues, again ignoring Dean. "He, too, had blood on his hands. He, too, had killed many he had not wished to kill. But of all the missions he had been assigned, Castiel was so proud to have saved you, Dean. Why would you ever ask that question? Have you not ample reason to be here?"

          "I--" Dean opens his mouth, but little words come out. He decides to focus on what he had come here for. "Where is he?"

          "I can bring you to Sam, Dean. But I--"

          "No, not my brother," Dean interrupts. "Castiel. Where is he?"

          Hannah's eyes open wide, her expression a mixture of bewilderment, sorrow, and something far deeper and more dangerous. She hesitates for a very long time before carefully asking, "What do you mean?"

          "Where the Hell is Cas?" Dean asks again, his voice booming in the office. "Don’t shove me another bullshit speech. I've been looking for him everywhere. Where are you hiding him? Where has he gone?"

          Hannah looks at him in silence.

          "You better start talking," Dean growls. "Or else I swear to God--"

          But Dean cannot finish. Of course, he cannot finish. Hannah looks at him in silence, the same way Castiel had, years ago, that night in their room. The lights flicker above them, and the room is still. Not a sound remains. Even the mumbles from the office outside have stopped.

The angel speaks, her words slicing through air gracefully. Her eyes were as dark as a starless night, as though the grace that once powered them is now no more.

          "Dean, do you not remember?"

          "Remember what?" Dean asks, his voice trembling.

          Hannah opens her mouth, and dread engulfs him whole.

          "Castiel is dead, Dean. You killed him."


	5. 5

          The world collapses. What does it matter?

          He does not breathe. He cannot breathe. There’s no…that’s not it. How?

          Pain. Pain in his chest. Pain in his ribs. Pain in his stomach, spreading everywhere, until it reaches the very tips of his hands—no, that’s just him, falling on his knees, and landing on his palms.

          When was the last time he felt such immense pain? He can’t remember. Maybe it’s because he is in Heaven, and everything gets a little too overwhelming up high.

          Searing light. It’s everywhere, and it’s hurting his head. He can’t breathe. He’s not breathing. He can’t breathe. Is that normal? That isn’t normal. What is happening? Is he being attacked? What is happening? What the Hell is happening?

          Amidst this craziness, this chaos that consumed him whole, he can vaguely hear a voice talking. Dean doesn’t know who, but the voice is nearing.

          “Dean…” it calls his name, but every bit of his strength and attention is allocated to dealing with the pain in his chest, which spreads through his body like wildfire. Dean tries to breathe, he tries very hard. But there is still no air around, and he’s not sure if he has lungs at all. There’s no motion in the air, as though he is shaking in vacuum.

          “Dean…” the voice calls again, and he feels a hand grip him tight on his shoulder. He shudders at how familiar the touch feels, which does not help. Now, in addition to the physical pain, a deep, deep fear kicks in. It has always been there, only now diegetic. Heaven has removed all the scars he had acquired on Earth, but it has somehow preserved that giant, ugly handprint on which the hand is touching him now.

          He can’t. He can’t recall, he mustn’t recall. There’s no—there can’t—How?

          “Dean…” the voice calls one last time. The hand gripped him tight, and turned his body around. Light now shoots directly into his pupils, and he can’t see anything. Everything is blurry, and he can’t breathe. He still can’t breathe. Why isn’t he breathing? His shoulder hurts a lot, as if someone were pressing a branding stick against it. A pulse of pure, white light shoots into his body, and—

          Dean lets out a scream, filled with such agony that the angels outside shiver with terror. It is not a human voice. It is the sound of a dying Beast, severely wounded and drowning in regret. The angels look at each other, and then turn to Hannah’s closed doors. They have all heard that voice, years ago on Earth, on that fateful night. But that was the Beast’s battle cry, a meaningless roar with nothing but the desire to murder behind. This…this is different.

          Behind those closed doors, Hannah stand quietly beside Dean. His eyes are unfocused, but she knows that the worst has passed. The Mark of Cain had been contained by Heaven’s most powerful Grace, and the Beast is relatively tamed.

          Dean is now breathing heavily, though more for comfort than for actual need. Hannah’s not sure if there is a difference. Humans, such fragile beings—where God had given them more room for joy, He had also reserved the same for sorrow and for pain.

          “What…what just happened?” Dean asks, sweat dropping from his forehead.

          “You had a panic attack,” Hannah answers. “I soothed your soul to cure it.”

          He looks up at her. Hannah’s face is expressionless, a gentle lack of emotions apparent on her face.

          “You shouldn’t have,” Dean says as he stands up, composing himself, his body still tingling with a distant memory of what just came to pass.

          “There is no need for modesty,” she replies as she sits down once more. Sheets of paper fly out from the cabinet and land themselves onto Hannah’s desk. Hannah takes out a pen from her drawer, and begins to write with a precision that reminded Dean of Castiel, when he had first come to Earth. It was in the way they moved their elbows and their shoulders—those muscles had been designed to kill and to smite.

          “I wasn’t being modest. You shouldn’t have touched me,” Dean raises his voice. Oddly enough, the panic attack seems to have liberated something within him, and it no longer bothers him that he cannot breathe in Heaven. It feels free, an escape from a tedious task. An itch shoots up from his right forearm, as does a heat, an urge dangerously familiar.

          “It was necessary,” Hannah says without raising her head.

          Dean does not know how to respond to that. His hands still hurt from his fall, and his chest infested with a dull pain. His throat is burning up, but he doesn’t know why.

          “Why did you bring me here?” Dean asks. “Is this what you do to all your runaway prisoners?”

          Hannah remains silent.

          “Talk,” Dean commands. “You ain’t brought me here for nothing. We both know that.”

          “Dean,” Hannah stops her paperwork, and looks at him calmly. “I brought you here because I thought you wanted to see your brother. There is nothing else.”

          “What, so I’m just supposed to believe that angels are into charity now?”

          “Yes, Dean,” Hannah says. “We do charity. Good things happen to good people. You don’t have to believe it.”

          Dean glares at Hannah. The itch and heat on his forearm is becoming too potent to ignore. “Yeah? And let me guess—I’m also supposed to believe that there ain’t one bit of you that wishes to kill me?”

          Hannah’s gaze shifts, and she turns her head to look at the floor instead.

          “Oh, please. There is no need for modesty. I saw the way you looked at Castiel, I know how you feel. That ain’t how you look at your war pal.”

          “Why are you doing this, Dean?” She asks.

          Time halts. It is curious, the way time seems to slow down whenever important things come to pass. Hannah has experienced this many times before, the most recent being the Battle of Sioux Falls. Then, she stood before a wooden door, guarding the last house of the city. Castiel had sent her there to protect the uninfected humans. By her side, a woman and her wife stood, guns in one hand, and each other’s in the other. They fought with courage, more fierce than any human Hannah had seen. Perhaps it was Hannah’s sentiments that slowed the moment, or perhaps it was God himself in action, attempting to preserve their lives for as long as possible. One second stretched to an infinity, and marked the separation of two worlds: the old one, and a new one. The next second, Heaven claimed two more, and there was scarcer hope.

          All these memories come to Hannah, stuffed in the fraction of a second, the infinity of which gave her nothing but more sorrow. By the time she recollects herself, Dean has already launched at her, his eyes blinded with a craze that Hannah, in that very brief moment, has only begun to grasp. She stands up and jumps back, avoiding Dean’s attack. Hannah can see his soul shaking, almost at the brink of collapse. The impact of Dean’s body against the metal desk is loud, and angels outside begin to ask if everything is alright.

          With a swift swing of her arm, Hannah takes out the angel blade hidden within her sleeve. She raises it against Dean.

          “Dean, stop. Please. I do not wish to harm you.”

          “It’s too late for that,” Dean replies.


	6. 6

          Clark looked up the sky. It was blue, and his kite was bright against it.

          Wind was blowing through the garden, and it felt cool on his face. He concentrated on the string, however. Flying kites was a difficult task, and he would like to be an expert in it.

          He could feel the pressure of the air currents, lifting the kite up, working against gravity. He could feel it press against the surface of the kite, the motion conducted to his hand through the thin, thin string, almost invisible in the light of the sun. Clark pulled the string closer to his chest. When you let the string too far away, you lose the kite. Clark learned it the hard way.

          His father had taught him how to fly a kite. Clark remembered it clearly: he was eight, and his father had just returned from Europe. Clark didn’t know much about Europe back then, mum didn’t let him. He didn’t remember much from before he moved to the House. He hated it there, but there was routine, and every Tuesday he could fly his kite, which was bright red, yellow, and blue. His favorite colors. There was a time when he got into many troubles for liking these colors. It was difficult to find red shirts for a time—red, according to mum, was an expensive color. It was also difficult to find red, yellow, or blue foods. Now, at the House, he could eat all the pasta he wanted, and wear his favorite red shirt.

          The kite flew. The wind was blowing, against his face, and against his kite. Clark took a few steps back, slowly moving, slowly letting go of the string, so the kite could fly higher. Skillfully, he let go, and the kite did fly higher yet. Higher, and higher, and higher it went, until it became a tiny dot, a mix of colors against the blue of the sky.

          Clark’s heaven went on, until the end of Time. It was changeless—almost changeless, save for one tiny addition. Clark would never notice it, because he spent all his attention to the kite. But if he ever turned his head around, and looked at the tree behind, he would see something glimmering underneath the sun, hung high on a branch. If he did turn his head around, he would see a wooden amulet, strange in design, attached to a string such that it could be worn as necklace. And, if he turned his head around for enough times, perhaps he would’ve seen an angel visit occasionally. She would not speak a word, only look. Sometimes, she would touch the amulet before leaving. Clark would have liked her very much, because, like his mother, the angel had red and flaming hair, bright and vibrant against the sky.

          But, of course, Clark never did turn his head around.

So the amulet hanged there, silently, tenderly.

          Until the death of Time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this very short fic. I've had many struggles writing it, and please, if you have any suggestions, criticisms, or even questions, leave a review. I'll gladly respond to them and make changes if we both think it's a good idea.


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